The Academy dawn was quiet.


    Too quiet for what had happened yesterday.


    No one spoke about the blood.


    No one whispered about the screams.


    No one mentioned the broken body that had to be carried off the dueling grounds, or the two instructors sent to the infirmary.


    It was as if it had been erased.


    Like it never happened.


    And yet—


    Caelan''s knuckles still burned.


    His heart still rang with fury.


    His eyes still saw red when he closed them.


    The air in his lungs was colder now.


    Sharper. Heavier.


    Like the world itself was preparing for something.


    And it didn’t make sense—until a letter arrived.


    <hr>


    "Room 77. East Wing. Now."


    —L.D.V


    Lucan Dras Varro.


    <hr>


    Room 77 was sealed. Guarded. Meant for instructors only.


    When Caelan stepped inside, the scent of iron and incense choked the air.


    Training dummies shattered into pieces. Runes carved into the floor. A lone table in the center. No chairs.


    Just Lucan, leaning against the wall, arms folded, like he had all the time in the world.


    Caelan didn’t bow. Didn’t speak.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Lucan looked up.


    “You’re late.”


    “I didn’t agree to meet you.”


    “You did the moment you survived me.”


    <hr>


    Lucan stepped forward.


    Boots echoing like hammers.


    “You’re strong,” he said. “But worse—you’re dangerous. That rage of yours? It’ll eat you alive.”


    Caelan didn’t respond.


    Lucan kept walking. Circled him.


    “Your sword style’s raw. Your Aura flow is unstable. You don’t understand blood rhythms. You’re wasting potential every day.”


    He stopped behind him.


    “But you lasted half a day against a Lich. You fought two instructors into exhaustion. And you nearly cut a noble brat in half.”


    He leaned in.


    “You’re my kind of bastard.”


    <hr>


    Lucan moved to the table and dropped a scroll on it.


    It unrolled like a secret war.


    "Invitation to the Black Fang Trials."


    Not public.


    Not sanctioned.


    Not legal.


    A blood tournament.


    Hosted by nobles in private, for the sake of testing monsters in human skin.


    "You’re entering it."


    Caelan frowned. “That’s for nobles. I’m a cadet from the slums.”


    Lucan smiled darkly.


    “And you think that still matters?”


    <hr>


    The truth hit hard.


    Lucan wasn’t just offering help.


    He wasn’t offering a hand.


    He was offering a leash.


    And a path.


    “Why me?” Caelan asked, voice low.


    Lucan didn’t hesitate.


    “Because the man hosting this event is my friend. Because he owes me. Because I need someone who doesn''t bow. And because…” —he turned, eyes cold—


    “...I saw the way you looked at me during that mission. You want to be strong enough to kill someone like me one day, right?”


    Caelan’s pulse froze.


    But he didn’t deny it.


    Lucan grinned.


    “Then I’ll train you. Break you. Shape you. And when the Trials come—if you live—you’ll either walk out as a legend…”


    “Or die the right way.”


    <hr>


    Caelan didn’t speak.


    Just stepped forward, took the scroll, and nodded once.


    No words.


    No promises.


    Just a pact of pain.


    <hr>


    That night, the wind shifted.


    In the Academy halls, Caelan remained the nameless slum rat.


    The bullied. The ignored. The cursed.


    But beneath the floors and beyond the records—


    In the shadows of mercenary dens and blood-soaked backrooms—


    Ghost had become an urban legend.


    Vaal had become a benefactor myth.


    And now…


    Lucan Dras Varro had chosen his first disciple.


    <hr>


    The wolves had stopped watching.


    They had started training.